A Chase for the Prize
by Wing Pikepaw
Summary: Stephen, Mowett, and half the Surprise's crew have been kidnapped by the French! Will Jack be able to rescue them-or will he accidentally destroy them in hopes of taking the prize? Sequel to Misadventure Aboard the Surprise.
1. Mutiny!

Stephen Maturin leaned over the railing of the captured French ship, the _Caniche._ It was a cool night, with a nice breeze blowing and plenty of glittering stars decorating the heavens.

Stephen gave a contented sigh and searched the open seas for the ship of his best friend, Jack Aubrey, who commanded the HMS _Surprise._ It was too far away to see, but Stephen knew they would see it in the morning, probably. Jack wouldn't want his prize getting too far ahead.

Stephen liked the ship. It was well-built and fast, and the captured French crew was always polite to him, calling him _capitaine _and assisting him on deck.

A cracking sound rang out behind him. Stephen spun, alarmed, and watched in mute horror as a body fell out of the main hatch. Judging by the body's size, it was Mr. Lamb, the _Surprise_'s carpenter.

Stephen ran to him and felt for a pulse. The man was still alive, but he had a nasty gash over one eye and was unconscious. Stephen slid him gently out of harm's way and dove below, pistol in hand.

A full-fledged fight had broken out between the Surprises and the Caniches. They had weapons out and looked ready to do murder. Stephen shouted, "Stop! Lay down your arms, all of you!"

A French voice growled, "Shut your mouth, doctor. We take orders from you no longer."

Mowett, the _Surprise_'s first lieutenant, was staring at something over Stephen's shoulder. "Doctor, look out!" he cried.

Stephen was turning when the belaying pin crashed down on his head. Everything instantly went black and he sank to the floor.

Mowett roared with anger and charged at the man who had hit him, the Surprises following him with yells and threats. However, the French leapt on Mowett and pinned him to the deck. He struggled heroically, but to no avail. After all, ten men were holding him down, and he wasn't exactly a block of solid muscle.

The ringleader, a big Frenchman named Michelle, (pronouned MEE-kel, not mi-SHELL) drew a dirk and placed it on Mowett's throat. Instantly, the Surprises halted their headlong charge. Michelle said in accented English, "If anyone moves, he dies. I swear it on the life of my captain." He glared at Stephen. "My _real_ captain."

No one moved. Michelle gave a horrible grin and said, "Put them belowdecks. The officer can stay in the brig, and the doctor in my cabin. Remember, someone complains, he's dead."

The shocked and quiet Surprises allowed themselves to be herded below, too stunned to do anything.


	2. An Invitation to Dinner

Aboard the _Surprise_, Jack Aubrey woke at a knock on his door. Blinking sleepily, he stifled a yawn and grunted, "Er, come in."

Killick's head appeared around the door. "We've lost sight of the _Caniche_," he informed Jack. "They left in the middle of the night."

Jack sat up straight. "What?" he demanded. "But I told Stephen and Mowett to stay within our sight. In fact, William was very adamant that he would."

Killick gave Jack a look of exasperation and vanished. Jack shook his head and dressed hastily, thinking hard. Was it possible that the French had rebelled, as Jack feared they might? Was half his crew, his first lieutenant, and his surgeon dead or taken prisoner? Jack tried not to think about it.

He strode briskly up to the quarterdeck and nodded at the helmsman, Mr. Barrett. He took the glass Killick offered him and peered along the horizon, ignoring Blakeney's nervous pacing and Pullings standing tense at his side..

"Who was on watch when they disappeared?" Jack asked absently, still glued to the telescope.

"That was me, sir," Barrett said. "I thought I may 'ave heard some shouting, but then she took on more sail and moved off, sir."

He indicated the direction in which they had gone. "Northeast, sir, dead thataways. I'm sure of it."

Jack sighed as he collapsed the glass. "Thank you, Mr. Barrett, an extra ration of grog for you tonight." He turned to Blakeney and Pullings. "Still no sign of them. I'm assuming they've been captured. In that case, Blakeney, I'm temporarily promoting you to first lieutenant until we have Mr. Mowett back. Tom, please make sure that Captain Cym's First Officer is not drilling holes in the _Surprise_'s hull again, I thought I heard an odd sound when I got up."

Pullings hid a smile and walked below. Blakeney grinned at Jack, saluted, and followed him. "Mr. Hollar!" Jack called. The quartermaster poked his head through the main hatch. "Sir?"

"Set a course northeast. We're going to intercept the _Caniche_ and retake her," Jack ordered. Hollar saluted and began bawling orders.

Soon, the _Surprise_ was sailing after her prize once more. Jack had Mr. Boyle on the bow, searching for any sign of the French ship. Jack himself was pacing the quarterdeck, occasionally giving orders, and thinking hard.

The _Caniche_'s captain, Pierre Cym, who was a prisoner aboard the _Surprise_, walked on deck and approached Jack. Heaving an internal sigh, (Jack didn't exactly feel like talking to him at the moment) Jack faced him when he cleared his throat.

"Good morning, _Capitaine _Aubrey. Your officer _monsieur_ Pullings told me to tell you that my crew is not drilling holes in your ship again. I hear you are going after my ship again, _oui_?" he said. "Why is that?"

"Well, captain, your crew apparently overpowered mine and are sailing back to France," Jack said tiredly.

Cym gazed absently over the water and muttered, "Ah, good, good. Will you take her again if you catch her?"

"Yes, of course," Jack said impatiently. "However, I plan to have the _Caniche_ tethered to the _Surprise _after that."

Cym laughed humorlessly and continued looking out over the water. "Yes, it is rather hard, to let your prize go, isn't it? I know the feeling."

Jack looked at him sharply, narrowing his eyes with surprise. Perhaps this man was more like him then he had thought. "Yes...." he said slowly.

Cym shook his head as if to clear it and shrugged. "Still, perhaps you are a better sailor than me if I could not take you first." He strode off, but Jack called him back. "Wait!"

The Frenchman turned, eyebrows slightly raised. Jack asked, "Would you care to dine with me and some of my officers tonight?" He waited awkwardly, not accustomed to inviting enemies for dinner.

Cym looked him over with a calculating eye, nodded, and replied, "Very well. I shall watch for my ship with your man Boyle on the bow until then." He walked off.

Jack leaned over the railing again. This dinner would be very interesting, he could tell.


	3. Not So Bright Frenchmen

William Mowett woke up slowly. A throbbing ache pounded through his skull, and dirty bilgewater slopped at his feet. He made a noise of disgust and cradled his head in his arms, wincing whenever the _Caniche_ rolled or bucked, causing his head to throb.

He looked around the small brig. It was nothing fancy, (brigs never were) just basically a cage with a stool inside. It was cold too. Mowett sat on the stool and drew his coat closer about himself, examining his other wounds. He wasn't severely injured, so he stood up gingerly and peered through the bars.

It was very dark inside the hold. Mowett stiffened. His worst fear as a child had been the dark, and some of that fear was apparently still with him. "Wh-who's there?" he whispered. No answer.

Mowett reached for his sword, already knowing it probably wouldn't be there. It wasn't. _Pull yourself together!_ He silently chided himself. _You're acting like a fool. Come on now, Will, think!_

Clearing his throat, Mowett stood up tall and said in a much louder voice, "Who's there?!" There was a thumping noise as someone came halfway down the stairs, then an annoyed, "Shut up and stop yelling, English!" from one of the French crew.

Mowett sat down and thought for a moment. Judging from the reaction his first shout had made, he decided that the French thought he was annoying. A sly grin came over his face, and he took a very deep breath. Remembering Michelle, the man who had hit him, he started cursing and swearing at the big Frenchman-very, very loudly.

He was so loud that the captured Surprises could hear him on the next deck up. Mr. Lamb, who had a bandaged head but was otherwise all right, pressed an ear to the floor and listened carefully. Slowly, he smiled and called, "It's Mr. Mowett, everyone! Just listen to him!"

A tide of abuse was howled from below them at that very moment. The French ran by the Surprises, presumably to stop Mowett. "Three cheers for Lieutenant Mowett!" cried Mr. Lamb. Three hearty Huzzahs thundered through the ship.

The French crew on deck turned this way and that, unsure of whom to silence first. Suddenly, all went quiet. Michelle rushed down to the brig, where Mowett appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He cracked one eye open as Michelle, who was fuming, stomped in front of him. "Noisy today, eh?" he commented, and closed his eyes again.

The Frenchman snarled and went up to the rest of the Surprise's crew. They were all in the same state of boredom as they had been the rest of the day. "Who was it?!?!!" screamed Michelle. "Who was yelling?"

Mr. Lamb looked innocently at his captor. "Oh, it wasn't us. I think two of your men are drunk, actually." He nodded to a corner where last night's guards were sitting, empty flagons of grog at their sides.

Michelle had a hissy fit, dragged the two unfortunates up outside, and slammed the hatch. Lamb and his assistant Naygle were doubled up with silent laughter. "What did you do?" asked Naygle's friend Will Warley with bewilderment.

"We gave them those cups of grog," gasped Naygle as tears of mirth poured down his face. "They said they were forever grateful to us-" he exploded with restrained roars of laughter when he heard yelps of pain as Michelle punished the guards.


	4. An Adventurous Dinner

Killick was in a very bad mood. Not only had the captain insisted on helping set the table for his guest, he also had broken his best crystal goblet and accidentally stabbed himself with a knife. Jack was nursing his bleeding finger in his cabin and trying to put his uniform on at the same time.

He crashed around in the galley for a while, purposefully banging into pots and pans to show how annoyed he was, so when Jack called, "Killick! Our dinner, please!" Killick seriously considered embarrassing Aubrey in front of the French captain by yelling at him. With a sigh, he resigned himself to growling around the doorframe, "It'll be ready when it's ready, alright?"

Jack shot an exasperated look his way, turned back to the table, and gave a bland, fake smile. Pullings, Blakeney, Allen, and Parker, who were all dining with him as well, stared at him, mouths slightly open. Tom gave a tiny shake of his head, and Jack immediately put on a genuine, if slightly strained, smile.

Cym didn't appear to have noticed. He smiled politely back at Jack and said, "May I compliment you on dinner? It smells quite....unique....from here."

Horrified, Jack took a sniff of the air and nearly screeched. _Oh, God, no, not the cheese, Killick, anything but the cheese! _he thought desperately, as if he could communicate telepathically with his steward.

"The cheese" was an enormous wheel of German cheese Jack had won in a bet a few years ago. Of course, cheese usually thrives if aged and doesn't go bad, so it was still around. However, the cheese smelled absolutely awful. Jack often wondered if it had gone bad after all, but Stephen wouldn't go near it to examine it.

_What's Killick _thinking?! Jack silently roared. He forced another smile and stood up, saying, "Oh, er, yes, I think I'd better go have a word with the cook."

He glanced at his officers, who had all turned a delicate shade of green and were trembling slightly. They too knew and feared the huge cheese.

Jack stormed into the galley, where Killick had tied a scrap of cloth around his nose to protect himself from the smell. Jack held his nose and bawled, "What happened to the steak dinner?"

Killick shrugged and said, "The Frenchman's dog got it. It serves him right, I say."

Jack narrowed his eyes, ruining the effect of this by still holding his nose, and roared, "Then make another dinner, Killick! And it better be fast!"

Meanwhile, back in the dining room, paint was falling from the ceiling and the glasses of water were vibrating from Jack's anger. Blakeney was pawing at his eye where he had gotten paint in it, and Cym was looking slightly alarmed.

Tom tried to bring things back to normal. "So, Captain Cym, er, what kind of dog do you have again?"

Cym answered, "Oh, I have a standard poodle named La. You may have seen him on deck."

Allen looked interested. "Oh? Could you bring him in, perhaps? I breed dogs back in England, so...."

Ever polite, Cym stood, saying, "Of course, of course. Just a moment." He crossed to the cabin door and opened it.

A big black dog bounded in. Tom stared at it, eyes wide. This just could not be a poodle. Poodles were small, fluffy, and yappy. This dog could have taken on a German Shepard and won. It came up to his hip, and was clipped in a style that he vaguely comprehended Cym saying was a sporting cut. It had no extra poufs anywhere, just on the head, tail, and paws, which were to keep the dog warm when it swam, according to the Frenchman.

La was staring menacingly at Tom and showing his teeth. They were very long teeth too, Tom noted. Long and sharp. A low, rumbling growl erupted from its chest, and it gave several loud, deep barks. So much for being small and yappy.

Allen was oblivious to this. He was examining La from nose to tail, shaking his head with wonder and complimenting Cym, who stood proudly to one side. Blakeney, however, was watching Tom worriedly, occasionally glancing at the dog.

Tom made as if to move, and that's when La lunged. The big dog landed on his chest, knocking all the breath out of his lungs and flooring him. There was a wave of awful breath, and a flash of white teeth. Tom struggled to push the dog off, but he was just too heavy. "Help!" he gasped as La menaced him.

Cym and Blakeney rushed forward to pull La off, but he turned on them and showed his teeth. Cym flung out an arm and caught Blakeney around the middle, who struggled to free himself, but the French captain hissed, "Don't move, or the dog will attack!"

Blakeney stopped, eyes full of frustration. La turned back to Tom, his muzzle almost touching Tom's nose....

Back in the galley, Jack was shouting at Killick. He accidentally kicked the cheese in his anger, sending it flying through the open door to the deck. It flattened Barrett, who had poked his head curiously around the door, bounced off the mast, whizzed lethally past a cannon, knocked down three men, and sent many others to their knees from the smell.

Finally, with a last crash, the cheese rebounded off a box of shot and fell in the water, where fish began nibbling it at once.

Jack peered after it, glared at Killick, who immediately began a new dinner, and strode back into the dining cabin, carrying a wave of smell with him. He stopped dead when he saw Pullings on his back, the huge dog standing over him, and Blakeney held tight by Cym.

Allen motioned for him not to move. Jack stayed put, horrified, as the dog moved closer and opened its mouth.

Tom closed his eyes, wishing he could have gone down in a slightly more noble fashion. He resigned himself to his fate and waited for La's jaws to clamp down on his face.

They never did. La began licking Tom with his long, wet tongue, sliming him. "Aack!" Tom exclaimed, disgusted. He spat out some dog saliva and shouted to a relieved Cym, "Get this beast off of me!"

The rest of the dinner went fairly well. Killick improvised a pot of turtle soup, and Jack had the sense to change out of his smelly uniform. Tom, however, excused himself and retired for the night. He was too embarrassed to show his face, which was still covered in saliva.

_Note-Where did I get a black, vicious, enormous poodle? My dog, of course! Yes, La is my dog. La is short for Lakota, but that's not French, so he was just La for the story. Fun fact._

_Please review!_


	5. The Beginnings of a Plan

Stephen allowed himself to be led down to the brig. Michelle, not being a gentleman who understood etiquette concerning high-ranking captives, had soon grown tired of entertaining the doctor and had ordered him thrown down in the brig with Mowett, who had been beaten for insulting him.

Michelle had been quite pleased with himself, Stephen recalled with distaste as he was forced down the hatch at gunpoint. He completely ignored the weapons and walked with dignity down to the brig, where Mowett was asleep. A French crewman opened the door, pushed Stephen in, and locked it with a bang that woke Mowett.

The lieutenant tried to sit up, but fell back with a grimace of pain when he moved his flogged back. Stephen was instantly beside him, checking the wounds for infection and talking casually. "Well, William, you certainly did a good job of aggravating the Frenchman, my dear. I do believe he nearly had a heart attack when you and the rest of the crew started yelling at once."

Mowett winced as Stephen examined one of the deeper cuts and managed a shaky smile. "That's good, it means he doesn't have a cool head like the captain does. It's essential in an officer so he should be easy to outwit."

Stephen began ripping strips from his coat to make bandages and shrugged. "Perhaps. He has full authority over the crew though; apparently he's quite popular with them. If we were to rebel, they would answer to his command alone. Still, I suppose it's worth a try. Do you have any ideas on how to retake the ship?"

"Not yet," Mowett admitted. "We're at a severe disadvantage, without weapons or a ship to back us up. If only we could signal the _Surprise _somehow….of course!" he suddenly exclaimed. "At night, a few of our men can break out and fire some of the cannons. Maybe Mr. Lamb can make those rockets like he did on Saluting Day again, they're hard to miss if the captain's on our tail, which he probably is."

Stephen tied the final knot on the bandages and handed Mowett his coat back. "Thank you," he said, sitting up gingerly. "I think we can tell the crew by cutting a hole in the ceiling of the brig. It leads right up to the hold where they are, and the wood is fairly soft since it's been rotting in this disgusting air." He sniffed and wrinkled his nose.

Stephen nodded excitedly. "I happen to have a rather large stone in my pocket that I found on the Galapagos. We could use it to break through!" He stood on the small stool, the only furniture in the brig, and began scraping and softly banging on the ceiling with the rock. The ship suddenly lurched, but Mowett steadied Stephen before he could fall.

"Listen!" Stephen whispered. He banged once on the wood above him and waited. A series of quiet knocks emitted from the wood. "Hello?" Stephen called as loudly as he dared. There was a muffled reply that neither of them could make out. Stephen shook his head. "Still too thick. I'll work some more."

He continued scraping away at the ceiling until he could see a faint amount of light coming through the wood. With a final whack, he broke through the thin sheet. An eyeball was staring curiously through the hole, and it widened when it saw Stephen. "Doctor? Are you all right? Is Mr. Mowett there?" it sputtered.

Stephen glared impatiently at the eyeball and said, "I'm fine, yes, though Mr. Mowett is a bit battered, but he'll live. Who is that?"

The eyeball retreated a bit, and Stephen could make out the features of Will Warley. "Sorry, sir. What news?"

Stephen quickly repeated the plan Mowett had thought up. Warley looked thoughtful for a moment, then relayed the message to everyone else. Warley's face was shoved out of the way as several other members of the crew jostled to look down.

"Belay there! Keep still!" barked Mowett. The officer's tone caused everyone to halt immediately, and Will's face reappeared. "Mr. Lamb says he can make another rocket with what he has in his pockets and a bit of stolen gunpowder, sir. As for the cannons, we could do that as well, we think."

Stephen nodded. "Very well. We'll put our plan into action tomorrow, Mr. Warley. For now, get some sleep, all of you. That's an order."


	6. Fog

Jack opened his eyes, got out of his hammock, and peered out the window blearily. He could see nothing-only great white clouds of fog. Cursing their bad luck, he hastily dressed and trotted on deck to take a better look at the fog.

There was really nothing to see. Jack could hear someone else moving around near him and called, "Belay there, who is that?"

"Mr. Pullings, sir," Tom's muffled voice replied. "Blasted weather, this, eh?"

Jack felt around in the fog with an outstretched arm and found Pullings' jacket sleeve. "Oh, there you are," he said. "You sound like you're over there."

"Where?"

"That way, where I'm pointing!"

"I can't see your hand!"

Jack let out a sigh of exasperation. "Well, we won't be going anywhere today, I assure you."

"Neither will the _Caniche_," Tom pointed out. "They'd have to be able to navigate these waters with their eyes closed. Not," he added, "that it would make any difference."

"Hmm," said Jack absently. "We could try, I suppose."

There was silence from the fog beside Jack.

"Mr. Pullings?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Tom stammered. "I could have sworn you just said that we could try to navigate in this. Blasted fog, must have gotten in my ears or something."

Jack stifled a chuckle of amusement. "No, you heard me correctly, Mr. Pullings," he said. "We have a lot of charts concerning this area, very detailed charts. We also have an expert steersman, Mr. Bonden, and our own knowledge of this area. If I'm not mistaken, we could do it easily."

A long sigh issued from the fog. "If you say so, sir," Tom said doubtfully. "I'm not sure....but it's worth a try."

"Of course it is," said Jack resolutely. "ALL HANDS! MR. HOLLAR, ROUSE THE CREW!"

The muffled pounding of many footsteps thumped up the hatches, accompanied by groans, curses, and exclamations from the crew.

"It is true the cap'n's planning on navigatin' through this mess?"

"Aye, so he says, but I don't believe it."

"Stow that kind of talk mate, you dunno where he is-he might be listenin'. Come to think of it, where are you?"

"Over here."

"Idiot, where's here?"

"Right _here_!

"OUCH!"

"Shut that fool up!" growled Mr. Hollar. "Our enemy could be anywhere."

Oddly enough, he was right.


	7. Rescue!

"Sir?" a voice called through the hole in the ceiling.

Stephen jerked awake. Mowett already was, seeing as he had been silently scraping away at the lock with the stone Stephen had found on the Galapagos Islands since midnight with little luck. Hastily, Mowett pocketed the stone and rose stiffly, grunting as his long-inactive legs straightened out.

Stephen stood as well, peering through the gloom of the brig to see who was speaking. The lantern was barely burning anymore, and it was still very early, judging by the light coming through the hole. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Stephen could make out the face of Warley, thrown into sharp relief from the shadowy light cast by the flicking lantern flame.

"Yes?" he answered crossly, wishing whatever Warley had to say could have waited until he had a good night's sleep.

Warley's voice was high and trembling with excitement. "Sir, we're pulling up alongside a ship!"

"Is it the _Surprise_?" Stephen demanded at once.

"Can't tell sir, there's too much bloody fog to see," admitted Warley. "But they haven't noticed us yet because of the fog, and if it is the _Surprise_, she'll be blown right out of the water, sir!"

"Are those rockets ready yet?" Mowett wanted to know.

"Yes, sir."

"Fire them out a porthole, but point them up into the air so they don't hit the ship. Then start yelling as loud as you can, understand?" he said.

Warley frowned. "But sir, if they don't intend to engage in combat, and they're Frenchies too, we'll get punished an' all for nothing!"

Mowett shrugged. "That's a risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid. But if they were French, the _Caniche _would have hailed them by now, surely?"

"Aye sir," Warley said automatically. He relayed the orders to his shipmates, and Mr. Lamb prepared a rocket. Stephen and Mowett waited below, listening breathlessly.

Then-POW! WEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The flare whistled as it fired into the air, spraying multi-colored sparks and lighting up the foggy ships. Warley heard shouts of panic and confusion from the opposite ship and took the chance.

"Ahoy the ship! Below! Help!" he yelled, and the rest of the men took up his cry. No one came to quiet them, meaning that the French definitely planned on fighting and were too busy to deal with the prisoners. It was a stroke of luck that would count to their advantage if it worked.

Jack's head jerked around at the sound of the yells that were coming from the other ship. He was heading towards a pile of guns that had been gathered the day before, but quickly changed his direction when he heard yelling that seemed to come from the French ship.

A faint, "Help! Below!" caught Jack's ears, and he instantly sprang into action. "Mr. Pullings, take your division and follow me!" he bellowed, not noticing that Tom was right next to him. The lieutenant staggered back, deafened, but waved a hand at his group of men and followed Jack onto the deck of the other ship.

The Frenchmen were not ready for such a bold attack; they were sure the British would defend themselves before thinking about boarding. However, they weren't counting on Jack being the captain of their target. Michelle pounded up the steps wielding a sword that he could barely lift, gave it up, and ran back down towards the armory to try again.

Without him, the French were a snake without a head. They milled about uncertainly on the deck, weapons dangling from loose hands. Then, an officer of Michelle's appeared and led a ragged charge towards Jack, Tom, and the other men.

Jack met them head-on, throwing himself into the fray. "Get down below, to where they have the prisoners!" he shouted to his First Officer.

Poor Tom was still deafened from when Jack had unknowingly shouted right down his ear. He frowned and shouted back, "What?" but Jack was already down the hatchway. Since Tom couldn't hear the captured Surprises either, he took a guess and plowed his way through the Frenchman, his division fighting their way after him.

Jack met Michelle and half of his crew coming up from the armory. Michelle had picked a decent sword this time and was waving it tauntingly at Jack, who narrowed his eyes at the challenger and leapt despite the fact that he was severely outnumbered with Tom and the rest of his crew still fighting towards the hatch. Jack locked hilts with Michelle and wrenched the sword out of his hand with a single savage thrust, then pushed him down the narrow stairs into the arms of his bumbling crew. There was an instant pile-up below, which gave Tom the time he needed to get through the hatch. The Surprises followed him and ran ahead of the two officers to clear the way of the French, who were packed in a confused tangle in the small hallway.

They all quickly shoved their enemies out of the way and continued downwards. Tom answered the calls from somewhere inside the ship; "Surprises, where are you? It's the captain and Mr. Pullings!"

Instant silence fell. It was eerie-the ship that had just been the center of commotion was echoing with silence. Jack heard a ringing in his ears and shook his head to clear it, but Tom was so glad that he could hear anything at all now that he let his ears ring with the deathly quiet inside the _Caniche._ Then-

"This way! In the brig!" came Mowett's voice. The men in the hallway took off in that direction, turned a corner, and found themselves in the brig. Mowett was grinning from ear to ear, and even Stephen was looking a bit happier than usual. "Glad you found us!" he muttered.

His expression suddenly turned ashen. "Watch out!" he yelled. They all spun around-to face Michelle and his men, all aiming guns and grinning nastily.


	8. A Captain and his Dog

Jack stared down the muzzle of the gun that was touching his nose. Michelle was leering at him, dark eyes fierce with triumph. "Drop the sword, English," he snarled, and Jack wordlessly did as he was told, face burning with frustration. There was clanging noises behind him as his crew did so as well. Michelle drew himself up to his full height.

"Long have I been waiting for this day," he began. Jack gave a mental sigh-he was not in the mood to watch puffed up idiots make victory speeches. Suddenly, the door burst open.

Cym's First Officer, a man none of the Surprises knew by name, stood there, holding onto La's collar. The black poodle strained at his leash, tail wagging furiously. The Frenchman was wearing his old uniform and sword, ruling out the idea that had hopefully formed in Jack's head that Cym and his officers would consider them friends. _Well,_ thought Jack, _I would be doing the same right now-being loyal to my country. _

The man heaved a sigh. "I hoped it would not come to this, but you give me no choice. Good-bye, Captain Aubrey." He let go of La's collar, and the dog lunged, mouth wide, teeth glistening.

Jack waited to die. There was no chance that he could fight La off with no weapons, and he would rather die than surrender. He was almost happy as the dog soared through the air towards him-let it come.

But oddly enough, Jack noticed, La wasn't looking at him. He seemed to be aiming to his right, or perhaps over his head. Jack watched in amazement as La leapt past him and landed right before Tom, who braced himself.

La jumped up on his hind legs and placed his front paws on Tom's shoulders, panting dog breath into his face and giving a huge doggy grin. His wet pink tongue slobbered all over Tom's face, and he barked happily.

The French officer's face was a mask of confusion as he stared at his captain's dog. "No, La, attack!" he yelled angrily. La turned around with a growl and bared his teeth at the man, who backed up. Once he was out of range to La's satisfaction, the dog turned back and began happily sniffing Tom's boots. The standard poodle was not going to be a problem.

But there was still the problem of half the crew of the _Surprise_ standing weaponless in the brig of the enemy ship. They stood there, waiting, as Michelle spoke respectfully to his officer in French, obviously briefing him on what was going on.

Bonden, who had his back to the bars of the brig, felt a tap on his back and turned slowly, almost casually. Mowett was standing there, an expression of fury on his face and the stone from the Galapagos still in his hand. "Tell everyone to get down," he growled softly. "On the count of three-one, two, three."

"ALL HANDS DOWN!" roared Bonden on the signal, and automatically the Surprises threw themselves facedown on the deck. Mowett leaned through the bars of the brig, shouted, "To hell with you, Frenchie!" and threw the stone as hard as he possibly could at Michelle.

It hit the startled man in the forehead, and he dropped like a stone. A gun cracked, and Mowett staggered back and collapsed beside Stephen, blood staining the dark blue of his uniformed left shoulder.

Captain Pierre Cym stood on the threshold, a smoking gun in one hand and a bloody sword in the other. He was wearing his old uniform and a strange, twisted smile. "That should keep him quiet," he said. There was a mad glint in his eyes, and his teeth were bared in a sort of triumphant grin. But, mad and armed as he was, Jack and Tom didn't care.

Pure and utter rage burned in their eyes. They had both known Mowett for years, and the wound that Cym had just given him would probably the cause of his death. The Frenchman was not about to get away with that. Not if Jack and Tom had anything to say about it. They both leapt for him.

The two men flew through the air as if in slow motion. Cym smiled insanely and cocked his gun again, ready to kill them. A small part of Tom's brain realized dimly that he was about to die, but he didn't really care._ At least I will have gone down with glory,_ he thought, satisfied. _I will have died to avenge my best friend. Very fitting, I suppose. Couldn't have planned it differently. _

The small bit of his brain had nothing to say to that.

But something else did. Something black and about waist-height hit Cym very hard in the midriff. The gun sounded again, but this time, the bullet hit the ceiling, its owner dead. The gun had knocked Cym in the head as he had been knocked down, killing him. Once again, La had saved the day.

But he had not saved Mowett. Bonden had already opened the brig and was crouching by Stephen, who looked up from the unconscious officer when Jack and Tom approached. The doctor looked grim. "I don't know if he'll live," Stephen said softly.


	9. Thoughts of Home

Blakeney was exhausted. He hadn't been wounded in the skirmish with the _Caniche_, but commanding gun crews on your feet for hours wasn't fun either. Still, he couldn't sleep.

The young officer found himself wandering the passages belowdecks on the _Surprise_. The only noise was his padding footsteps and the gentle swishing of the waves. This peace and calm, however, was broken by the flicking light of a candle underneath the sickbay door. Blakeney blinked-and remembered. Lieutenant Mowett. Tom and Stephen had not opened the door of the doctor's cabin until late at night, after eleven bells, and that was only to announce that the officer was still alive.

Quietly, Blakeney cautiously peeked around the door. The candle was burning low on the table, and liquid wax dripped slowly into its holder. Tom was asleep on a stool, a book hanging from one limp hand and his mouth slightly open. The doctor, however, was still awake, packing up his surgical instruments carefully, but he looked up when the door opened.

"I'm sorry, sir," Blakeney whispered so as not to wake Tom. "I only came to see if Mr. Mowett was going to be all right."

Stephen's frowning face broke into a rare but sad smile. "That was very kind of you, Mr. Blakeney. I've operated, and he appears to have a severely shattered arm and shoulder. I've patched him up as best as I could, but there's a very good chance infection might set in. At least the bullet missed anything vital, thank God. The way he was bleeding, I thought it had. Still, I'm staying up with him," he murmured, beckoning Blakeney into the room.

Blakeney moved hesitantly closer, closing the door slowly so as not to wake everyone. "May I stay with you, sir? I can't sleep."

Stephen nodded, gaze fixed on Mowett, who was asleep in the hammock in the far corner. He was breathing raggedly and shallowly, but his complexion looked a bit better.

"Mr. Pullings there tried to stay up, as you can see," said Stephen with an attempt at a smile. "But he's worn out from the events today." Suddenly, something out the window caught his eyes, and he crossed the room. "What was that bird-did you see?"

Blakeney smiled behind Stephen's back. "It's good to have you back, doctor," he said.

Stephen glanced at him. "Thank you. Oh, look, there it goes again! Could you pass me my telescope, please?"

Blakeney handed it to him, and they spent the rest of the night pointing out stars, constellations, and rare birds, but their smiles were strained and their laughter short. Both of them were worried about Mowett, who hadn't changed whatsoever.

The next morning, when six bells was struck, Tom awoke rather abruptly when Blakeney shook him. He dropped the book onto the floor and sat up straight, then looked around rather wildly.

"Wazzat? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Blakeney," he stammered.

"You're wanted on deck, sir," Blakeney whispered, "but be silent. You don't want to wake Mr. Mowett-he's still in a bad way."

Tom craned his neck to get a better look at his sleeping friend and forced a smile. "Well, I think he looks a bit better this morning, don't you? Anyhow, send word for me and the captain if he wakes."

He pulled on his jacket and hat and went out the door. Late August air blew over the deck, stinging Tom's face as he trotted up the quarterdeck.

"G'morning, sir," he yawned. "Mr. Blakeney said to tell you that Mr. Mowett is doing a bit better."

Jack, who was cleaning his telescope, nodded absently. "Good, good, glad to hear it. Stephen had to operate, did he?"

"Yes, he did, sir," Tom replied, looking out over the horizon. The _Caniche_ was anchored not far away, and Howard could be seen pacing the quarterdeck through the early morning mist with some other Marines.

"Are we heading back to London now?" Tom asked, turning back to Jack.

"Yes, I thought we should while the _Caniche _is still right under our noses," he replied with a wry grin. "Still, we're long overdue for our return. We were expected back over a month ago." He winced and sighed. "Ah well. They're probably all hoping that we're dead or captured. Poor unfortunate them."

Tom snorted mirthlessly. "Will we leave today, then?"

Jack looked up, eyebrows raised. "Until Mr. Mowett wakes up, I think. If he needs to recover somewhere, I'd rather let him off now instead of dragging him across the Atlantic."

He put the telescope carefully down and stood up, striding over to stand next to Tom. Out of habit, Jack scanned the horizon once. Seeing nothing, he followed Tom's gaze to the _Caniche_.

"She's a beauty, isn't she? Damned fast too, by the look of her, and the way we had chasing her!"

Tom nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, sir. I'd like to get aboard her again and poke around for a bit."

Jack was about to agree when Blakeney came dashing up, an unrestrained grin on his face. "Sir, sir, Mr. Mowett's awake!"


	10. Solved and Unsolved

Jack and Tom followed Blakeney down to the sickbay. Stephen was speaking to Mowett, who was sitting up. The doctor had a pleased look on his face.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his second lieutenant. Mowett was still pale, but his usual smile was back on his face and he was sitting up, his heavily bandaged left arm in a sling.

Tom rushed over to his friend, relief evident on his narrow face. "Will! Are you feeling all right? How's the arm?"

"It's fine, it's fine," said Mowett impatiently, with an absent wave of his good one. "What happened, with the battle and all? I assume we won?"

Jack and Stephen exited the room, allowing the two friends to catch up with each other. "I'm impressed, Stephen," said Jack with a wry grin. "I thought this was going to be the one man you couldn't save, but you proved me wrong."

"Who, me?" Stephen said with a tone of mock indignation. "I beg your pardon?"

Jack chuckled. "Well, I'm glad that William's going to be all right, but I must get back on deck, I'm afraid. Send Mr. Mowett my best regards, if you please."

Stephen nodded and walked off, but he couldn't help but smile a bit at his own success. He had been truly worried for the officer, but it looked like he would make a full recovery.

"So, Cym is dead, and his officers captured," finished Tom, a look of satisfaction apparent on his face. "We'll head back to England very soon, the captain says."

Mowett nodded slowly. "And I took out Michelle, did I? Bloody idiot, he deserved it."

Tom snorted. "Indeed. He must have been bad to get you so upset."

"Ask the doctor," his friend insisted, missing the sarcasm in Tom's remark. "He was that bad."

Suddenly, the door creaked open very slowly, and La nosed his way into the room. His friendly brown eyes glowed at the sight of Tom, and his coat bore the signs of a recent brushing.

Mowett grinned slyly. "Looks like you found a friend among the Frenchies, eh? I thought you didn't like him."

"No, no, he's a good dog," said Tom absently, bending down to pat La on the head. The poodle licked his hand and allowed himself to be stroked for a few seconds, then trotted over to Mowett's hammock to inspect him.

William held out a cautious hand for the dog to sniff, remembering that he had been the only person that Babbington's dog had ever bitten, but La didn't seem to care. He sniffed curiously, but bounded out of the room when he heard Allen coming down the hall.

Tom smiled. "I think he prefers us, in truth. Well, I have to get back on deck." He stood and gave Mowett a friendly clap on his good shoulder. "Get some rest."

Mowett nodded and watched him walk out the door, then closed his eyes and fell into a deep, natural slumber.

Jack glanced at Tom as he approached. The wind was rising, seeming to challenge Jack, whispering, _Go home! Take the wind home!_ It was very tempting. If Mowett was fit to travel...

Tom was grinning. "He's fine, sir. I think we can leave now: he won't need any treatment or anything."

Stephen, who was leaning on the quarterdeck railing, scowled. "Mr. Pullings, last time I checked, I was the doctor, not you."

"My humble apologies, Doctor," Tom said at once. "I didn't mean to...I'm very sorry, won't happen again, I just-"

Stephen waved a hand, cutting off the first lieutenant's babbling. "However, I think you're right. Mr. Mowett is in no immediate danger. Within a few days, he'll be up and about, I'm sure."

Jack's heart leapt and he struggled to contain a smile. "So, you mean, we can sail?"

His old friend eyed him coolly. "You're the captain, Jack, and I'm the doctor. I'm merely diagnosing a patient. You say when to sail."

The smile broke across Jack's face, lighting up his tired features. "Right. Tom, you, Mr. Howard, part of the crew, and half the compliment of Marines will escort the _Caniche_ to England. Stay in the _Surprise_'s view, will you, or we'll be coming after you, and I don't want to repeat this episode again. Mr. Blakeney can take your place until Mr. Mowett has recovered."

Tom, hardly daring to believe it, said, "Y-you mean, I will be in command?"

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Unless you want your dog to be in charge, Mr. Pullings! You'll leave within the hour?"

Tom nodded furiously. "Yes sir, of course, sir. Thank you, sir!" He saluted and strode off as fast as etiquette would allow, a look of surprise and happiness apparent on his face.

Later that day, Jack watched the _Caniche_ set sail, her recently repaired sails billowing out majestically in the growing breeze. Stephen remarked, "I wonder if it was wise, letting Mr. Pullings leave while only Blakeney is available. I mean, he's very trustworthy and intelligent, but he is only 14 years old."

Jack sighed. "Yes, I know, but Mowett will be ready in a few days, and I have my full confidence in Blakeney. Besides, the crew likes him, and of course the midshipmen do. Think about the sense of that, Stephen."

"Ah," Stephen said, nodding. "I suppose you have found that the hands have very good judgment?" He coughed, making a noise that sounded a bit like _Hollom!_

Jack shot a sharp look at him. "Most of the time," he replied, defensive. He turned back to the sea, watching the vanishing horizon. "Well, that was a mission well done, I say. There were a few complications"-Stephen grimaced-"but overall, it turned out well. The _Caniche _is back in our hands, no permanent damage to Mr. Mowett...and best of all, we're going home for a long rest."

Stephen smiled thoughtfully. "That would be very welcome indeed."

But little did he know that rest was the last thing that he would get when the _Surprise_ went home...

_So, it's done! Finished! Obviously, I'm writing another, and I will not leave you hanging. The next book is going to be a NON-HUMOR! Can you believe that? Yup, it's gonna be a Mowett mystery! Stayed tuned..._


End file.
